superfluous sincerity
My heart drowns in its own superfluous sincerity.
I broke up with my jealousy,
buried it deep beneath a Dead Sea;
with Styx and stones on top.
Bedazzled it with bricks
and watched it drop.
Strained salt from saline
to ensure it’d sink.
A palm between scapula
shoved it off the brink.
I broke the habit’s knobby knees;
fed its false honey to blaspheming bees.
Snipped the leash
and wreathed a noose.
Pulled the teeth
and set them loose.
Dammed the mouth
of the River Lies.
Cried out the last
of my self-pity cries.
From Jealousy’s burdens
my mind was finally free.
It was then that I started,
in earnest, to trust in
Trust and to love me.
Sarah Leidhold, 1/26/19
breaking up with Jealousy
I.
One sweaty-palmed evening,
thumbing through his phone
while he lay sleeping,
a realization hit me:
I was cheating on Trust
with my Jealousy.
If Jealousy was a third wheel,
it would be a flat tire.
It would be a Mad Max machine
sinking its teeth into Subaru.
Jealousy warned my pimples
popped holes in his libido;
said my slight scoliosis
was a major disappointment;
promised he prayed my teeth
would melt to her shape- round yet flat.
Ten times a night Jealousy called,
demanding that I track him
out of the corner of my eye
until my vision crossed.
It was getting clingy.
I was getting dizzy.
II.
So, I broke up with my Jealousy,
buried it deep beneath a Dead Sea;
with Styx and stones on top.
Bedazzled it with bricks
and watched it drop.
Strained salt from saline
to ensure it’d sink.
A palm between scapula
shoved it off the brink.
I broke the habit’s knobby knees;
fed its false honey to blaspheming bees.
Snipped the leash
and wreathed a noose.
Pulled the teeth
and set them loose.
Dammed the mouth
of the River Lies.
Cried out the last
of my self-pity cries.
From Jealousy’s burdens
my mind was finally free.
It was then that I started,
in earnest, to trust in
Trust and to love me.
III.
Three weeks later,
Jealousy’s ghost came calling,
meowed like a Siamese- LOUD.
Claws tried to stitch
the itch back into fingertip.
Whispers sang the familiar siren
pop-hit, “Baby Check Phone
One More Time”;
The panic spread
like poison ivy.
But I will no longer
let this feeling drive me.
I shifted into goodbye;
I insisted that it go.
Felt the ecstasy of limits,
the triumph of saying NO.
I sent the phantom packing,
with a pat on its head;
“We can still be friends,”
it bluffed, its cheeks going red.
“No not friends; but
we will be memories.”
As I turned my back,
the door closed with ease.
You have no place here with me;
with me and him; just us two.
Driving smooth, driving love,
in our all wheel Subaru.
-Sarah Leidhold, 1/26/19
Thank you to all the women marching today for literally taking steps to change our country. I hope the sound of your synchronized steps shake Washington awake. My heart beats in time with your footsteps. You are my heroes!
I wrote this two years ago and it still rings true:
This sticker came in the mail after I donated to Planned Parenthood. Immediately upon receiving it, I was picking at the peel, tossing on my boots, and grabbing at my keys. I felt so proud; so empowered; so ready to take action, even if it was just a car sticker.
But suddenly, my body went stiff. I hesitated at the door’s threshold. My worry was not “oh it’s a lease.” It was: “Wait. What if I get attacked? What if someone sees this on my car and smashes a window in? What if they pop my tires to demonstrate their disagreement? What if they pop my nasal septum in order to demonstrate their hatred of me and of women? What if I am shot on spot for my feminism? What if I am putting a target on my already endangered body? What if it this is what they call ‘asking for it’? What am I risking here to show my feminism?”
For five days, the sticker sat staring at me from the coffee table, sometimes whispering, “Save yourself, sister; I’ve had my heart bombed by a thousand thugs for speaking out. Hide your tongue.” And sometimes it said, “Do it; you have to; lick the envelope and commit to this message. Braver women have done much more.” Out of cowardice, I debated. I put a dirty dish of comfort on top and forgot about it for a bit.
Maybe it would have been my my first thought if it were a different time. A time with a president who unflinchingly labeled himself a feminist and who acted like one; a time when organizations like Planned Parenthood were not in danger of being cut; a time when our country was not about to be led by a man who openly incites violence to smother opposing views, who is caught on camera bragging about the diurnal details of his routine of sexual assault, a man who would like to not only put up a wall but capture and rerelease “illegal” people as if they were an enemy species, a man built of money but devoid of integrity. Tomorrow our president?
Unfortunately, the time is now. And my first thought was, “what if I am assaulted for having this in my car’s back window?” And I’m not saying that is our impending president’s fault. He did not plant that idea in my brain; no of course not.
But there have been studies done about the potent power of authority. Stanley Milgram’s experiment in 1963 found that many participants were willing to administer supposed electric shocks to others when instructed to do so by a man in a white coat. Sixty-five percent of participants were willing to administer the highest voltage of shock when encouraged by the authority figure (simplepsychology.org). It seems easier to do horrible things when you are told to do so by someone who is powerful; powerful and hateful.
It’s hard to see a president with such aggressive, divisive, and misogynistic beliefs and not feel afraid that people will follow suit. That some little boy will watch him boisterously interrupt the person he’s debating with and not carry that with him somehow- interrupt his friend in school the next day with a mirroring hand gesture or rude phrase. Or begin assigning numbers to women’s bodies according to assessed quality; or talking about how they’ll let you do anything if you’re the captain of the football team. Or ostracizing the person wearing the hijab. Or laughing at that classmate with disabilities. Or assuming a deficit because of a pigment in skin. Or all of the above. This is not normal; this is not okay.
So many of you will say we are whining; that we are being over sensitive or crying about not getting our choice. And that is likely because you are in a position of privilege or you do not understand the potential for harm that this man and his administration embody. That you are charmed by his money; or that you are impressed by his “honesty”. That’s your opinion. That’s your experience.
But I hope you can still listen. And hear us people who are terrified and angry and feel betrayed by the America we thought we knew. I hope that you can hear the feet of thousands of women marching to the beat of “this is not normal; we will not accept this; no, this is not okay.”
I hope you hear the coins from the bottom of my pocketbook drop in the belly of Planned Parenthood’s piggy bank. I hope you can hear the throbbing music from the LGBTQ activists dancing outside of Pence’s place. I hope you hear the silence in the absence of voices at the inauguration from all of those absent performers that turned down the invitation.
I hope you hear me when I say our president genuinely scares me; when I say I am not afraid of what you think I am afraid of. Let me tell you, don’t assume you know. Any day, anytime, I would be glad to Macarena in a porter potty filled with people who are transexual than occupy even the world’s most spacious bathroom, 1,460 (please let the days of these four years fly) stalls down from our president elect. No thank you.
Please listen when I say I have taught the sons and daughters of moms and dads who hoped the grass was greener on this side but whose cards are not green; they are human beings who contribute to this country in ways you will never understand unless you listen. Escucha.
Listen. I will listen to you. I will listen to him. But each time I do, I am only more disgusted. I am sick. This is not normal. This is not okay for America or for any country or any person. We need to chant the mantra; refuse desensitization. It’s not okay. It will not be four years from now. And I hope we can prove that then.
For now, I am here. I am here if you need to cry or scream or yell or rant or panic attack or pray. I am here and I am scared and I am angry and I am one of many who are stubborn and strong and set in our beliefs. And we will keep being here. So get ready for us.
Thank you so much to all of the incredible women marching around the country on Saturday to remind everyone of the rights of minorities who make up so much of who we are. You are so brave and so important and inspiring and I admire you so much. A huge shoutout to Amanda, my feminist mentor, for her dedication to the cause in Washington; I am so proud of you.
I’m sorry that I will not be there beside you. I’m sorry that I only have a sticker on my vehicle and a rant on my Facebook. But my heart beats in time with your stomps.
Thank you to everyone everywhere who is speaking out and marching on. You are what gives me hope about this country. You are what inspired me to press this sticker onto the cold pane this rainy evening.
2079
“What shade of white
was the fur, Daddy?
Like snowy white
or your bottom teeth?”
Lips closed, I grin;
“It was pale yellow
after a swim,
but a soft white
when fluffy.”
Her eyes glitter with curiosity:
two snow globes upturned.
“Did you touch one?”
Regret ghosts across
the pads of my fingertips.
“No, they lived
in the Arctic;
that’s a long way
from here.”
As her eyebrows sew
together, a wrinkle
creases her forehead
like a crinkled map.
“Where did they go?”
My cheeks burn hot;
palms pool with red
sunlight streaming in
from the window.
Impatient for answers,
she presses:
“Did they melt
with the ice?”
My nostrils inhale
sharply; the air is cold.
“They’re extinct now.
That means there are no more alive.”
At this, her eyes go dark;
her mouth flatlines.
“Like the dinosaurs?”
I pause, treading water.
“Yes, like the dinosaurs.
But it’s different this time.
This is our fault.”
She nods, and the movement
is tragic. Like one white speck
bobbing in a dark blue sea
before it is erased.
The questions quiet;
like she’s heard this story before;
like she knows she’ll hear it again;
like she knows she’ll tell it someday.
Story is all that’s left.
“Daddy, what color were the
bones? White or pale yellow?”
In the thick November night
from 35,000 feet above,
the Midwest is afloat
on a dark secret sea.
Farmlands surrendered
their greens to sunset,
and now are swallowed
in a shade of black
that invites imagination
to label as it likes.
Boston bound,
my dust dry cells
ache to have thirst
slaked by the Atlantic.
And so I see
what I search for;
the corn stalks unfurl,
ribbon into sea grass,
reeds undulating underwater.
The soy beans crust
colorfully into corals.
Tractors ease edges
and angles into flippers
and fins; the wind turbines
soften, shrink to sea stars.
Forehead leans into the chill
of double glass windows,
eyes drag across dead lands;
scenes painted jet black
by the messy strokes of midnight.
Homesick, seasick,
impatient for destination.
Then, there; look, see;
a reflection dances,
catching my glance in its net.
The lights of the land
are captured again
on the ground;
watch how it sways,
overlaps, waves.
Pretenses, pretending
drains away;
Boston, is that you?
Of course it is.
You are a true city atop an ocean.
You are more beautiful than you know.
The chime of the seatbelt signal
almost sounds like seagulls.
I smile at the black swatches;
I know what lies, what laps
just underneath night’s sly veil.
With memories aglow in my mind
I fill in the dark like a Light Brite.
I’ll sea you so soon.
After putting my car’s visor down to shield myself from the sun’s glare, I often leave it there for days. I grow accustomed to my narrow view of the world in front of me; I don’t wonder if there is more to see.
Then yesterday when I was driving home, I flipped it back up on a whim; suddenly my eyes took in a wider swath of nature; the trees went from being woody walls to orange pillars stretching up to a cerulean sky, all spread out, dappled with black birds.
It was like taking a filter of bias off of my perspective and seeing the big picture. It made me go woah, I was missing so much beauty before. It made me want to adjust my eyes to the light and leave the visor up. It was like clarity of some metaphor on the tip of my tongue; like how sometimes I’m so stuck in my own provincial perspective and I am not aware of some bigger truth. Sometimes little things stop me in my tracks.
“I’m hoping to do some good in the world.” -Hermoine Granger
“Officer, you didn’t ask me if I was okay.” -my white privilege
“Officer, you weren’t very nice to me.” -my white privelege
(This post is about me realizing my white privilege in an interaction with police.)
Last night I got into a small car accident. As I was turning to pull into my drive way, the person behind me didn’t slow down. They drove into the rear end of my car. Everyone was physically fine, thank goodness.
But mentally, I was struggling; years ago I fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into a tree. Waking up to the sound of glass breaking haunted me for weeks. I’ve had anxiety about driving for a long time, so this incident caused it to surface. Joe held me while my body trembled, I cried, and I word vomited nonsense. The other driver was so kind, she hugged me a bunch too. We decided to call the police so that the report could be completed. I felt a sense of relief that the officer would help me feel safe.
When the police officer arrived, he noticed my registration was expired and told me that I was lucky I was in my driveway or else he would have impounded my car. He was all business, wrote me a pricey ticket, and asked if I had questions.
I told him, between tears, that he forgot to ask me a question; he forgot to ask if I was okay. He said I had seemed fine when he saw me before. I told him that I understand that someone can look okay, but mental health is important too and you should always check in with people who have been in an accident. Even if it’s minor, it’s unsettling. He got defensive and said he’s been doing his job for twenty years. In response, I replied that he was doing fine police work, but asking if someone is okay is interpersonal work. He told me to have a good night and left.
I’m extremely respectful of authority, even afraid of getting in trouble; so I don’t know what came over me. Joe said he was shocked that I spoke up this way. I just felt that he should know so that he could ask the next person if they were okay. I understand he needed to ticket me for my mistake, but I thought he could have first talked to me about how I was feeling after this accident.
Afterwards, with the healing powers of a burger coursing through my body, I explained it this way- he works with registration stuff all the time; I forgot and he reminded me. I teach kids how to be compassionate and he forgot so I reminded him. We all forget things sometimes and we can learn from each other.
When things quieted down, I sat in reflection of this interaction, feeling a bit guilty for being so bold and a bit proud for being assertive. I realized I was upset because I felt the officer wasn’t being as compassionate with me as he should have been; I felt I was being treated with coldness when I should have received warmth. I got a reprimand instead of compassion. I felt robbed of the humane reaction; I felt confused that he didn’t make me feel safe. I felt wronged. I felt I wasn’t treated fairly by the officer.
In response, I felt entitled and safe enough to call that authority figure out, and say, that wasn’t nice, I didn’t like it, and do better next time- essentially I felt like I could say you’re not treating me the way I deserve to be treated.
Wiping my tears away, it hit me: what a prime example of my white privilege. Would I have felt comfortable saying that if I was a different race? Would he have reacted the way he had if I was a different race? There are so many people who get treated unfairly and they don’t have the chance or the privilege to talk back; or if they do, it’s not seen as a hysterical girl spewing her anxiety. It’s interpreted and responded to very differently.
Thinking of that, I felt the way I do when I am living only inside the confines of my mind and then my eyes lock with the vastness of the night sky or the endless expanse of ocean: humbled, my sense of egocentric struggle quieted, small but interconnected, insignificant in a way that not dismissive, but balancing.
Perspective sometimes rear ends you; it pushes you out of your dust-caked comfort zone and into a place where an estimated empathy burns on the tip of your tongue, demanding to be cultivated.
I’m sorry I thought I was the most persecuted person in the world for a moment. I forgot even the fact that I didn’t have to think about my skin color when the police car pulled up already put me in a place of privilege. I had an expired registration and I’m upset because the officer prioritized that over comforting me. The expectation that the officer would be gentle and caring towards me is part of my privilege; the disappointment in his not being- privilege. My entitlement to complain- privilege. Him accepting that and walking away- privilege. I’m unscathed- privilege.
There are so many people who are treated with much less compassion by authority figures and don’t deserve to be. I’m thinking of them today and I’ll try not to put this thinking in the glove box of my brain; I want to keep it right in the rear view, no on my dashboard, so that I make sure I treat them with all the compassion I have. They deserve it; we all do.